Outrageous (12 page)

“Poison? Witchcraft?”

“Exhaustion. She worked the poor squids to death, and she damn near wore me out, too.”

Confused by Art’s indignation, Griffith asked, “Doing laundry?”

“Doing her! That woman—”

Griffith started to laugh.

“—can dance the buttock jig more times than any woman I’ve ever had”—Art glared at the convulsed Griffith—“and I’ve had quite a few.”

“That I should live to see the day,” Griffith gasped when he could speak.

“She coulda killed me.”

“At least you’d have died happy.”

“But then ye’d not have had the information for which I sacrificed the Roaring Jack,” Art snarled.”

Griffith promptly sobered. “Which is?”

“The winter has brought a slow buildup of mercenaries here, mostly foreigners and mostly savages.” Art blinked his one eye against the smoke as he set the bellows to the fire. “Wenthaven’s cottagers kept an anxious eye on it, fearing a battle nearby what could wipe them out, but ’tis worse than that. Rough bunch, these mercenaries are, and impatient to start looting. Crooked the elbow too many times one night and visited the village down the road. Raped the women too many times, roasted a baby on a spike, set fire to half the huts.”

Remembering Cledwyn’s scarred face and his promise to visit Marian, Griffith leaned into the fire. “Sweet Saint Dewi.”

“Four families burned out in the cold. Wenthaven paid for it all, and the mercenaries haven’t been loose since, but—”

Griffith slipped out of his shoes and set them to the side of the hearth. “Does your widow know why they’re here?”

“Nay, but I bet I do.” Art stared into the flames as if God’s truth were written there. “To join forces with those Irish rebels ye were telling me about.”

“With the impostor earl of Warwick? Perhaps. But Lady Marian has secrets, and I suspect ’tis her secrets which Henry fears.”

“Ye believe her secrets are the reason for Wenthaven’s private army?”

“I know nothing. I only know what I saw.” Rising, Griffith gestured to Art, and they met on the canopied bed. Pulling Art into a huddle, Griffith murmured, “What if Lionel has a royal father?”

Griffith could see he had jolted the sharp mind camouflaged by Art’s aging facade. “Not one of the princes who disappeared in the tower, for they were too young. How about King Edward, their father? He was a right rotten lecher.”

“Even if Edward had died while conceiving Lionel, Lionel would still have to be at least three years old.”

Licking his lips, Art reluctantly offered the name they were both thinking. “Richard?”

Griffith didn’t agree, he only watched as Art looked alternately contemplative and distressed.

At last he burst out, “But if Richard, why? Why would she do it?”

“Power? Wealth?” Griffith suggested. “The chance to be queen when Richard’s wife died?”

Art reared up, fist clenched. “I’d like to smack ye sometimes. What kind of noddy-pate would think such a thing of Lady Marian? She’s as sweet a lass as any I’ve met.”

Griffith hooted. “Sweet?”

Art hushed him.

Griffith lowered his voice. “Sweet? That’s the last word I’d use about Marian, but in sooth, I share your doubts. When she broke my nose, she said something. The pain may have previously driven it from my mind, or I may have been too noddy-pated to think it important.”

“That’s better.” Art subsided.

“She claimed the lady Elizabeth had sacrificed everything to save her brothers from Richard’s lethal embrace.” Griffith pulled off his surcoat over his head and tossed it to the foot of the bed.

“She’s right, ye know,” Art said, his gaze on the brown material. “’Tis ugly.”

“I’ll dress like a peacock on the morrow,” Griffith retorted. His tunic followed the surcoat, and then his hose. Naked and shivering, he drew a rug over his shoulders and thrust his feet beneath the covers.
“Mayhap we’ve discovered the explanation for Elizabeth’s behavior at Richard’s court.”

This time Art hooted. “Ye were so convinced Elizabeth was a right horrible villainess.”

“I admit it.” Griffith valued the chill of the sheets, for it kept his mind alert, and he needed to be alert. He was a warrior, simple and rough. He often failed to find his way through the maze of intrigue in the court, and he feared this intrigue would end in death—his own, Art’s, Marian’s, Lionel’s—if he trod unwarily. The responsibility weighed him down, yet at the same time it challenged him. “But Henry took Elizabeth to his bosom with affection and seems to value her above all others. Henry’s no fool, so—”

“So ye believe Lady Marian sacrificed everything for the young princes, also?”

Griffith gave her her due ungrudgingly. “She’s loyal.”

“Aye, and valiant beyond all sense. Are ye suggesting King Richard Arsewedge the Third killed the princes, then used their sister to get respectability and encouraged her chief lady-in-waiting to think the princes could be helped by the forfeit of her virginity in his bed?”

Art had a way with description Griffith usually appreciated it, but not tonight. Not about Marian. The thought of Richard blackmailing her, raping her, infuriated him. “’Tis a possibility we must consider.”

“While his own wife lay dying.” Art rubbed his stomach. “Makes me want to puke.”

“’Twould explain why Henry sent us to Lady Marian and her son.”

Art slid from the bed and brought the pitcher and two mugs, and together they sipped the ale. “Do ye think Henry means to kill the lad?”

“Richard had other bastards, and Henry hasn’t killed them.” Art stared at Griffith, and Griffith admitted, “He hasn’t treated them well, either.”

“Damn, I don’t like this, Griffith. It fits too well. Lady Marian has a child by Richard, Wenthaven discovers it and sees his chance to be regent to the king”—Art drained the rest of his mug—“if only he can get Lionel on the throne.”

“So Wenthaven hires mercenaries and plots with the Irish to depose Henry.” Griffith again sipped, then handed over his mug with a grimace. “Or maybe he just plans to use that insurrection to cover the stink of his own activities.”

“Meanwhile, Henry discovers the boy’s paternity, catches wind of Wenthaven’s plans, and sends us to care for Lady Marian and Lionel, knowing full well he might have to order us to kill the lad.”

“I couldn’t kill a child, and Henry knows it. That’s the inconsistency.” Griffith pounded his fist in his hand. “Why didn’t Henry tell me what he feared? What part of this scheme have we missed?”

Suddenly they heard a soft footfall. They spun around, knives drawn and ready.

Marian stood between them and the stairs. “Put the knives away. I’ll not hurt you.”

Her voice sounded firm, but her tall figure swayed like a willow in the breeze. She still wore her dress, but her fingers clutched a woolen wrap around her shoulders, and the ruffles on her cap fluttered as she trembled.

Griffith calmed his instinctive fight reaction, then exchanged a glance with Art. Together they sheathed their knives and offered identical, boyish, and, they hoped, innocent grins.

“Lady Marian, lass, ye surprised us,” Art said.

“Old habits.” Griffith patted the pillow that hid his knife.

“I heard your voices, and I thought…” She shuffled her bare feet on the cold board floor.

“Sure, and we’re glad to have ye join us.” Art winked his one eye and created such an odd effect
that she smiled, if only briefly. “Er…did ye want to talk about what we were talking about, or did ye have another topic in mind?”

“I didn’t understand what you were talking about. You were speaking in Welsh again.”

“So we were,” Griffith agreed heartily.

“’Twas only a dull discussion of how Welsh ale is superior to English ale.” Art poured Griffith’s discarded cup full and offered it to her. “Ye’ll want a taste before ye agree.”

She stepped forward, her gaze on the mug, and Art lured her with a low, pleasant chuckle. “’Twould be treason to agree without a taste, but ye’ll see what makes the men grow strong and the women grow beautiful when ye try Welsh ale.”

She took another step. “But that’s English ale. How will I compare?”

Art struck his forehead with his palm, as if the quandary had just occurred to him. “Ye’ll have to come to Wales with me, I trow, to make it fair. Ye’ll like Wales. The mountains are rugged and beautiful, with Snowdon towering above them all. The people are kind and generous, poetic and full of song. Castle Powel is set on a hill above the rugged Atlantic coast, where the waves pound and the seabirds sing. Aye, my lady, ye must come to Wales with us.”

Griffith watched as she wavered, wanting to make the last step but frightened of the consequences.

And he didn’t want her to make it.

All well for Art to entice her with a silly challenge and a bit of laughter. Art didn’t see the braid that draped over her shoulder and imagine the red hair loose. He didn’t imagine her comb as it dug into the waves and tamed them. He didn’t observe the flex of her slender fingers and imagine them wrapped around a sweet Welsh bundle of a babe. He didn’t look at her long, bare feet and imagine them placed on his legs on a cold winter’s night. Art wasn’t
imagining the pleasures a man imagines when he’s wanting a wife.

But Art knew Griffith was, and he was intent on making it well-nigh impossible for Griffith to deny them.

Her gaze was still fixed on the mug. She seemed frozen in place, and Art could wait no more. He took the final step, clasped her hands around the mug, and urged, “Drink.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I’m cold.”

“Ye’re shaking, lass,” Art observed, then hurried to the fire.

She
was
shaking. Griffith could see it. She shook in ripples, in waves, like someone fighting to repress some emotion too great to contain. He grasped her wrist and found it trembling in his hand. Other signs of distress were visible, too. She bit her lip. She looked at him, then her glance slid away.

His bold, valiant Marian was afraid.

Without his realizing, he softened the grip of his fingers, softened his normal rough growl. “What bothers you, sweetheart?”

She flinched away as if burned. “I just wanted to…ah…”

Leaning off the mattress, he put his hands over hers and lifted the mug to her lips, helping her as he would Lionel.

“Drink,” he whispered, and she obeyed.

When she finished, he placed the cup on the table and again asked, “What bothers you?”

Her gaze slid up his body beneath the covers, lingered on his bare chest, then reached his face. “I had a…oh…the baby was sleeping, and I didn’t want to wake him, so I…”

Comprehension began to dawn on him, but he encouraged her. “Why did you want to wake the baby?”

“I didn’t want to wake him. Only hold him for a wee bit.”

She shivered, and he knew the heavy wrap she wore could not be keeping her warm.

Art elbowed his way forward. “I’ve wrapped a stone, warm from the fire, and I’ll place it here, in the middle of the bed.” To Marian he said, “I’ve an assignation with a sweet widow in the laundry, and I must be going, but Griffith will take care of ye.” He shoved the foot warmer between the sheets and rapped Griffith sharply on the leg in the process. “Won’t ye, Griffith?”

“Arthur, don’t go,” Griffith commanded, but Art slid out the door without a backward glance. “Damn the man! I hope she sucks him dry.”

The wrist in his hand trembled more, and Marian whispered, “You’re angry.”

“Nay. Not at you,” he assured her, but he couldn’t tell her to sit on the bed and warm her feet on the stone. He could scarcely keep from kissing her palm, and the years of celibacy drove him like a spur in the flank of a spirited horse. Grimly he pulled himself under control, reminding himself he was the rider, not the ridden.

Tugging at her wrist, she said, “But you’re right. I shouldn’t have come down. I’m sorry. Let me leave you in peace.”

He kissed her palm. “I’m concerned about you. You had a nightmare, you say?”

Never realizing his ruse, she covered her eyes with her hand. “It was awful. They were burning the cottage, and I couldn’t find Lionel, and when I found you, you’d been stabbed through the heart.…”

With his free hand, he drew her fingers from her eyes and felt the dampness of her tears. Saw them glisten on her cheeks. Heard her sniffle. He put his hands to her waist and lifted her onto the high mattress. After tucking the blanket around her sock-covered feet, he tightened the tie of her robe, then said, “Sit beside me.”

“Why do you do that?” she burst out.

“What, lass?”

“Toss me around, make me do what you wish, then tell me to do it?”

He chuckled, comfortable with the press of her hip against his, pleased with the formidable barrier of sheet between them. Urging her down on the pillows beside him, he said, “Lie down. I’ve found you get your way when you don’t give people a choice.”

“Especially not women?” she asked peevishly.

“Especially not weak-minded folk,” he corrected. Before she could respond, he asked, “You couldn’t hold the babe, so came to hold me instead?”

Her shivering diminished. Instead she squirmed, and his whole body clenched. She was frightened, emotional, vulnerable. Every maid had been warned of the dangers of frequenting a man’s sleeping chamber. And Marian herself had discovered the truth of it—Lionel proved that. But she had overcome her reluctance at least enough to come to him.

Only in the throes of fear, but she’d come to him.

So he would contain his outrageous impulses and give her the human contact she craved.

After sliding his arm around her shoulders, he pressed her head down until it rested on his bare chest. She resisted, of course, but she never had a chance against his strength and her need.

“Rest on me,” he murmured.

With a sigh, she relaxed. Her breath puffed along his skin, her hand smoothed his crinkled hair from beneath her nose. “I only wanted to look at you,” she whispered.

He smiled at the top of her head, glad she couldn’t see the countenance her confession engendered. “All the lasses like to look at me. ’Tis only a privileged few who get to touch.”

His uncharacteristic teasing did bring her head up, but he gently pushed her back down and asked, “Can you hear my heart?”